


I Want to Hold Your Paw

by fatcamp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Comfort, Curly Fries, Doctor Who References, First Dates, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Mixtape, No Draeden, No Stalia, Oblivious, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Original Character(s), Pokemon References, Sad Derek, Scents & Smells, Simon Hale, Stakeout, Star Wars References, Werewolves, chapstick, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatcamp/pseuds/fatcamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles accompanies Derek on what he feels is a pointless stakeout but finds that he might not be as alone in his feelings as he thought.</p><p>OR</p><p>Derek takes Stiles on their first date but sort of neglects to tell him that's what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want to Hold Your Paw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiccinDylan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiccinDylan/gifts).



> Many thanks to the wise and talented FiccinDylan, without whose encouragement and assistance, this little story wouldn't exist :D

Sitting in Derek's car for hours on end pulling stakeout duty with the former alpha is a special kind of torture for Stiles. Not because they don't get along or it’s painful but just the opposite. Things have never been better between the two. Derek has been civil, polite even--and it is freaking Stiles out. He simply doesn't know how to handle the new Zen Derek. He never responds to the younger man's snark in kind anymore, which absolutely throws Stiles off balance. It is no fun poking at someone, only to be met with serene composure. In fact it just makes Stiles feel like a dick. Which in turn makes him resent Derek, which makes him feel guilty, and it’s just a vicious cycle, okay? Beginning and ending with one Derek freaking S. Hale--werewolf extraordinaire, who by the way still wouldn't tell Stiles what the S stood for in his middle name.

"Your middle name is Stiles, isn't it? It's okay, you don't have to lie. You don't want to constantly be compared to all this and be found lacking," Stiles says with a hand flourish accompanied by a brief eyebrow waggle, "and that is completely understandable, dude." Ah, sarcasm, how Stiles loves thee. It makes it damn near impossible to distinguish from the truth and lets him get away with being his usual self around lie detecting werewolves. Of course Stiles is the one who really doesn't want to be compared to Derek. The young man has been gaining more muscle definition recently, but he knows he'll never approach Derek's level. Derek who is all stubble and muscles and uncannily tight pants. Seriously, is he wearing jeggings? Does Stiles need to stage an intervention? Because if that is the case, then Derek is a pair of Uggs and a skinny latte away from fitting in perfectly with the local sorority population. Where was he? Oh yes. The point is he feels like Sophie wouldn't have much a damn choice to make between the two of them.

Derek just gives a small huff which could almost be interpreted as a laugh, and is that a smile? Stiles could swear his stakeout partner cracked the slightest hint of a smile just now. He stares at the werewolf incredulously when he doesn't get a response chastising his use of the word "dude." At a loss for words, Stiles gives a slight shake of his head, turns his attention to the cold remains of an order of curly fries resting on his lap, and licks his lips.

As Derek softly punches the radio on, Stiles hears the quiet notes of one of his favorite songs of all time. “Oooh, that’s my jam!” he exclaims enthusiastically through a mouthful of fries after attacking them shamelessly. He manages to spill only a few small pieces on his shirt and reclaims them quickly and without shame. At least any potential awkwardness in the air could be somewhat tempered by the smooth stylings of The Beatles.

In seemingly no time, Stiles is left with an empty, grease stained paper basket and cheeks puffed out with the last bites of his food. He stares down with a rueful pout as if this will manifest more oily, potato goodness. Without tearing his gaze from the building they’re supposed to be monitoring, Derek thrusts an arm out, offering Stiles the rest of his own fries. 

“. . . thanks,” he mumbles, not understanding why in the world anyone would willingly part with that ambrosia. Maybe Derek would have preferred apple slices, a salad, or something else equally boring that Stiles would make his father get. His father who is a middle aged man under strict orders from his doctor to adhere to a heart healthy, albeit bland, diet. Whatever, that’s what Derek gets for letting Stiles order for both of them. Thanks to his supernatural metabolism, it’s not as if the werewolf needs to be concerned about _his_ cholesterol or sodium. It couldn’t be a body issue, because Stiles could plainly see that all was fine on the corporal front for Derek. And Stiles meant _fine_. 

Stiles absently licks his lips and glances toward the driver seat to find Derek looking out his window, ostensibly at the building they are supposed to be surveilling. He lets his gaze meander along Derek’s impossibly fit body. Stiles thinks he looks simultaneously firm and yielding, with tan skin that simply sings out to him. It demands his rapt admiration and devotion. 

At this point, he cannot give fewer shits about whatever visiting emissary Derek has tasked them to keep an eye out for. Not only did Deaton personally vouch for her, but she had apparently been on good terms with Talia Hale. That was enough for Stiles, and it should have been more than enough for Derek. Yet the older man was insistent that someone accompany him to play spy and find out exactly when she arrived on territory. Derek apparently needs some paw-holding for this simple job. Naturally the rest of the pack had disappeared just before he recruited for this particular mission. _Thanks, assholes_ , Stiles had thought at the time. And again just now. 

Because this is the torture portion of today’s program. Stiles allows himself a microsecond more of ogling the unattainable, hot-like-fire wolf _(note to self, Stiles: not an ideal descriptor for a Hale)_ before steeling his nerves and tearing his eyes away. He takes a deep breath as quietly and slowly as he can, trying not to draw attention to himself and what will quickly be a pants-tightening situation if he doesn’t get himself under control. He chomps on what really is the last of the starchy spiral goodness and puts all the trash in the paper bag at his feet. Stiles tries to be very mindful these days to reign in unseemly emotions around werewolves. Scott had eventually passed on the knowledge from Derek that they were able to parse scents from chemo signals to find underlying emotions. _And no, Scott, they have nothing to do with cancer._ Hence Stiles is currently mentally listing all the Pokémon he can think of in order to distract himself out of arousal. It could be Star Wars expanded universe novels, whatever did the trick. 

He’s halfway through a chronological list of Doctor Who companions, Derek leans in toward Stiles, whose eyes bug out. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s not for his own companion (because yes, Stiles is the Doctor in this scenario) to take a few seconds to rifle in the backseat and retrieve a small box from the best little bakery in town. He kind of wishes Derek took longer to locate the box because he just barely got a hint of his elder’s scent. Stiles is no wolf, but even he can identify the mingling aroma of clean sweat, lingering deodorant, and something that must just be Derek. He wants more time to take apart that last earthy bundle and strip it to its source, but the man whose fragrance has captivated him has opened the box and is now holding out an almond cannoli for him.

“Yes!” The young man’s face lights up with an electric grin. “How did you score these? You have to get there so early before they run out!” He mashes the whole pastry into his mouth, demolishing it in record time. Once again speaking with his mouth full, he scoffs, “and I am not trying to wake up at the ass crack of dawn, as delicious and magical as these little crack-filled devils may be.” He moans, and his eyelids fall halfway. His eyes are practically crossed, and the resulting image is purely obscene. Stiles finishes swallowing and shoots Derek a wry grin, “you’re the best.” 

The procurer of the goodies grunts in acknowledgment, shrugs his muscled shoulders, and says, “it’s worth it.”

Stiles coughs pointedly and occupies himself by fiddling with the radio. Only, pressing the preset buttons is having no effect on the hushed music. It isn’t until he mashes the eject button that he gets a result. The soft music cuts off entirely, and Stiles gingerly removes the disc that has popped out of the console. He rotates it in his large hands to see that there is no label, only his own name penned in precise, flowing script. “Huh?” he inquires.

Glancing toward Stiles then returning his gaze elsewhere, Derek replies, “oh. I, uh—that’s for you. Just, as a thank you for coming along,” he scratches the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to. I’ve heard you mention some of those songs and bands, so . . . thanks.”

This is new. An actual thank you from grumpywolf. And a gift! Sure, all he had to do was click his mouse a few times to actually create the album, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Wait, click his mouse? Does this mean Derek actually knew his way around a computer?

As if reading his mind, he tells Stiles, “Lydia helped.” Still, a mix CD personally curated by his lupine crush is surprisingly . . . touching. He would read more into it I he thought he actually had a reason to do so.

This has the younger man sputtering. “Yeah, yeah, no, I mean, thanks! It’s awesome. Seriously I totally appreciate it, and I will treasure it.” Stiles realizes too late that he might come off sounding insincere or sarcastic, but he notices Derek nod his head slightly in response. A minute of silence stretches out between them. Stiles runs his fingers over the writing on the disc as if he can divine Derek’s intentions when he made it, and he places it with care on the dashboard.

“The ‘S’ is for Simon,” Derek practically mumbles almost shyly as he turns toward Stiles and meets his eyes.

“Hm,” Stiles considers, pursing his lips. He tries and fails not to be dazzled by those eyes that evoke early morning on a beach, “not bad. Like Simon Tam from Firefly. He was pretty badass, but then I suppose you wouldn’t actually be named after him.”

“Right,” responds Derek with a small, sad smile. “Actually, I wasn’t given a middle name. None of us Hale kids were,” his expression and eyes fall. It is so rare that he ever learns anything about Derek from the man himself. It seems he generally hears third-hand accounts he can never entirely trust, and Stiles doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and shut Derek down into brooding silence. There’s been enough of that, thank you. Silence is one thing, but the brooding is practically painful. On the occasions that he witnesses that, he swears he can almost hear Derek’s mind running through a list of all the ways he has failed: people he has let down and lost. Cocking his head, Stiles grunts curiously as a prompt for his packmate to continue.

Inhaling a sharp breath as if to gird himself, Derek does go on. “Laura helped me legally change my name after the fire,” he quietly says with eyebrows now drawn together. But he closes his eyes and inhales slowly through his nose, defined chest rising and falling, which seems to dispel the tension as quickly as it appeared. “Simon was my little brother’s name. He was only seven years old when . . . we lost him with everyone else in the fire. He was born human, and I always felt like I had to protect him because of that—to be more than just any big brother would be. Taking on his name is my way of honoring him.” 

He finally looks up at Stiles, revealing his damp eyes, and admits, “he was so special to me.”

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to give a sorrowful smile, and he quietly tells Derek, “that is the sweetest and saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Derek carries on. “He was still too young for the bite, but he was really eager for it. More than anything, he wanted to be with the older family on our full moon excursions. To be with us and feel what we felt.” He chews his bottom lip momentarily, “he would have made a great wolf. He was inquisitive and brave—but not foolish or reckless. Already brave for being so damn young. And he was so smart,” he lets out a staccato laugh and a tight smile. “Almost too smart for his own good.

“I wish I could have seen him grow up: seen the man he’d become,” Derek’s voice is cracking now and Stiles is having a hell of a time keeping his composure, “I just—I always wonder if he died thinking that as a human he wasn’t good enough for us or that he didn’t belong.” Derek is shaking now, and it is absolutely breaking Stiles’ heart.

“Hey,” he reaches across the car toward the older man, hesitating slightly before placing his hand on Derek’s preternaturally warm shoulder. He unsuccessfully tries to blink back the tears that were threatening to spill, “he couldn’t have hoped for a better family. I’m sure Simon knew how loved he was.” Derek’s head is hanging, but he gives an abbreviated nod accompanied by a sniffle. He brings up his hand and places it on Stiles’ wrist, squeezing slightly before his thumb starts rubbing haltingly. Wanting that small gesture never to end, Stiles clears his throat mildly. “When I think about how I lost my mom, I try to remember that we were lucky just to have each other in the first place. I’d rather have had some time with her than none at all. So I’m grateful for it, you know?”

The werewolf sniffles and nods again, swallowing harshly to center himself. Their hands retreat, and Stiles is left reflecting on his own advice. He may not be anything more than this to Derek, but he’s glad to at least have it. He’ll be his friend and offer comfort when he can. Inwardly sighing with resignation, Stiles reaches into a pants pocket and frees his tube of lip balm. His long, nimble fingers inattentively uncap it, but what he is met with brings a sullen expression to his face. He had already depleted the tube but forgot to replace it before he left. He had bigger things on his mind like how he was going to keep his wolfy crush in check and secret while spending an extended period of time in close quarters with the object of his affection. Putting on his best doe-eyed pout, Stiles turns toward Derek and asks if he can use his chapstick. 

Instead of giving a real response, the werewolf questions him as to why. “Because,” whines Stiles, “mine ran out, and it is of the utmost importance that I keep these babies smooth as a baby’s bottom and ready for action at all times.” He puckers up exaggeratedly for emphasis. “What? I lick my lips a lot. They’re delicate and require high maintenance!”

Derek lifts a mildly sardonic eyebrow and responds, “well that’s unfortunate for you because I don’t use chapstick.” He juts his neck toward the human, “werewolf healing? There’s no need for lip balm in the first place. My lips are already naturally as smooth as a werecub’s bottom.” He’s grinning with self-satisfaction, and damn it, even that is a good look on him. 

Stiles momentarily narrows his eyes and challenges him. “No way. No one, not even a supernatural creature of the night, gets blessed like that.” 

The older man responds with his own harmless glare. “Fine. Here,” and he swiftly takes Stiles’ hand, holding his fingertips to his lips for proof, “see for yourself.”

Only partly embarrassed, the young man is honestly trying to judge the truth in what Derek told him. He kneads those lips gently but still can’t get a feel for the wolf’s claim. He tells Derek as much; and before Stiles can even react, Derek has crowded into his space and replaced the fingertips with Stiles’ own lips. 

With eyes wide in bewilderment, the young man really does flush now. The pink coloration blooms on his cheeks and ears immediately, warming him up and threatening hyperventilation. Even Derek’s physiology has the sense to at least make the tips of his protruding ears rosy. However, neither man has closed his eyes or even so much as blinked. Stiles hums as if he’s now able to truly consider the weight of the other’s previous assertion. Their faces finally separate but only slightly, and Derek is still clasping Stiles’ hand. “Yeah, I mean, that’s—“ he clears his throat and swallows nervously, “that’s soft. Like, totally baby’s ass. Definitely a major perk in my book for being a werewolf.” 

He feels Derek lightly stroke his palm with a thumb, and it shoots a shuddering sensation through his entire body. He’s lucky he’s already seated because this is what it must feel like to be weak in the knees. Stiles knows he must be giving off such an intense smell of arousal, but he can’t be bothered in the moment to list all the first generation Pokémon he can think of. He notices Derek’s eyes dart down to his lips and back up.

“Fuck Pokémon,” Stiles mumbles almost inaudibly as he leans forward, this time closing his eyes. It’s only a fraction of a second, but it feels like it stretches for a lifetime. He has time to think to himself, _please don’t leave me hanging, Derek_. Once again nearly reading his mind, the werewolf draws up his hand that isn’t still holding Stiles’ and tenderly cups the side of the boy’s face. His thumb delicately ghosts along a collection of beauty marks then over his cheekbone, almost in reverence, and Derek closes the space between them. 

It’s different this time with each knowing the other’s intent. Lips pressed against lips, it feels charged and wild. Stiles finally does remember to breathe, but he can’t help the whimper that escapes. He places a hand behind Derek’s neck, using it as leverage to press themselves together. Derek tilts his head slightly and his partner follows suit, feeling the other’s tongue teasing for entry into his mouth. Stiles is thrilled to grant access of course. 

Their tongues meet shyly at first, and Derek runs his along Stiles’ teeth and then further. He lets his hand drop to the boy’s chest and feels the powerful thudding of his heart. It provides percussion in the only soundtrack he needs for this perfect moment. Together, their mouths create a symphonic melody of wet friction and longing sighs. Stiles seems to have gained more confidence and probes his own tongue into the werewolf’s willing mouth. His fingers graze along the nape of the werewolf’s neck and scrape gently across the hairs there, resulting in a shiver. After a few moments of searching, the nimble tongue withdraws and the young man nips at the other’s lower lip. Derek can feel Stiles smile weakly against his lips and mirrors a genuine grin of his own.

They bask in the moment with their foreheads pressed together as they catch their breath, wearing twin silly expressions of wonder and excitement. They separate several inches from each other; and Derek can see that from kissing alone, Stiles looks absolutely defiled. He’s still flushed with exhilaration, and his already full lips are overly plump from recent action. He feels proud that he’s able to have this effect on the young man. That same debased face in front of him falters with a flicker of concern. “We’re totally going to miss the emissary arrive, dude.” 

“About that,“ replies Derek sheepishly, “she kind of maybe arrived earlier today and met with Deaton and Scott already?” 

Stiles’ mouth drops open, slack jawed. “Then what is all this? The stakeout, the staring at people going in and out some boring building forever?” Derek gives him a look that asks with his eyebrows, _are you seriously this dense?_

Realization starts to creep into the young man’s voice as he continues. “And the curly fries, and my favorite dessert you coincidentally happened to have, and the mix CD. Derek Simon Hale, is this a date? Did you stealth date me? Are you trying to court me?” he finishes, quirking his eyebrows suggestively.

A serious demeanor settles on the werewolf’s face, and he makes sure to look Stiles in the eye. He responds, “no. Try not. Do or do not. There is no try,” and settles his countenance into a tiny smirk. The boy’s eyes grow wider than should be possible; and he cackles for a solid minute, making Derek’s expression grow into a resplendent smile so big it makes his cheeks ache. Stiles finally nearly regains composure and manages to say through aftershocks of laughter, “I can’t believe you just Yoda’ed me.” He settles his hands on Derek’s face, framing the perfection before him and trying to memorize that golden moment. “Next time let’s have a real date. Maybe we can go for a steak out. Ha! Get it? Steak out?” He chuckles faintly, “I think we’re going to be awesome together.”

The older man sighs and rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. Stiles’ essential fragrance of subtle mint, warm rain, and sheer comfort washes over him, bringing a firm sense of home as the boy wonders what his love smells like to his werewolf. “Yeah, we’re going to be great,” Derek whispers with complete certainty, drawing Stiles in by handfuls of his shirt for a languid kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write! Kudos, comments, and general flailing over Dylan O'Brien are all welcome ;)  
> Who knows? Maybe some day there could be a sequel with other-ahem-activities taking place in the car.


End file.
